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Opening segment to "Beacon"

Different writing this: Less adjectives. It lest the reader do more of the work.

Levi stripped off his clerical collar and tossed it on the dresser. He dropped his head and ran his fingers through short-cropped black hair. Shivers spangled across his scalp and down his spine. But to try to kill him, no one had touched him in centuries – except for her. He unfastened the top two buttons on his cassock and rubbed his throat, craining his neck like a man just relieved of a noose.

“AaaAH!” He groaned and dropped his forehead into his hands. Flattening his palms on the dresser top, he leaned forward, glaring at himself in the mirror.
“Well, Éogan,” he breathed and cocked his head, “what now?” Crowned with sweeping brows, his eyes were black with the luster of polished hematite.

“How do you avert tragedy this time… without getting yourself killed?” he growled. A strong widow’s peak and cowlick pointed down to his angular nose and full lips framed by a trim black beard. He sighed again as he cast about the room. “Best get on with it… I’ll wear the soutane,” he resolved aloud. “It may serve to calm him and it’s fitting enough, given I’m undertaking what may be my last mission of mercy.”

Slipping into a long black woolen peacoat, he killed the room lights and glided through the shadows of the house. Lofty crystal windows topped with stained glass cast the space in an eerie collage of color. He trembled with adrenaline, eyeing soggy snowflakes plunging from bloated clouds and anticipating the unavoidable confrontation with Michael.

He will pluck me to pieces… slllowly… one-limb-at-a-time…

Levi was small among those of his own clan: just six feet tall and two hundred pounds. Compared to Michael, and Michael’s son Paeter, he was but a runt. He made up for his diminutive proportions with towering intellect, telepathic command and experience. Born in the year 275, he was the factual patriarch of his clan, but he cared not a jot for titles. Having gone by many names in his time, Levi knew they meant nothing. What mattered was blood. Erinn was his blood.

…but I can’t just leave this process to nature, or Michael…

Michael Stuart had just stolen Erinn – and when she was on the very brink of birthing Levi’s reprieve. At the costs of centuries in time and many millions in dollars, The Speciation Project had created her. Levi’s own financial outlay had been enormous, but his emotional investment dwarfed that consideration.

…There’s too much at stake…

He hesitated at the door, reluctant to plunge into the cold, dreading facing Michael. Erinn’s visage crystalized in his mind and he felt again the warmth of her presence, her guileless vulnerability, her courageous ardor. She was to him “a vessel of The Good”.

“I must go,” he resolved aloud and opened the door.

As he watched the preparation of the helicopter, he agonized over how to handle Michael. He’d known and befriended him under another name centuries before. Levi had looked very different then, and he’d intentionally changed his accent and mannerisms with the same fluid dexterity that had safeguarded his longevity. The true vampyre was as much chameleon as it was predator, but there were so few true vampyres left. Erinn looked to be the breakthrough promising their next rebound, but she had a condition Levi regarded as “an endearing, but life-threatening, throwback”. He’d dubbed her “Dead Heroic” – a moniker he’d intended to make a point: She was rash.

“Dead heroes do not champion principles, my dear,” he had admonished her. “Living is harder than dying and a principle worth killing or dying for is best served by living in its tribute.”

Comments (12)

CailinCallaghan
The ground crew deiced the rotors one last time as he boarded the helicopter. Levi reckoned the storm a serious threat but he was determined to be on hand when Erinn delivered the triplets she carried. The infants were his, and Michael’s forte was, after all, only anesthesia. Levi had long since stopped counting the lives he’d brought into the world. He saw them in and he saw some out, quite proactively at times. He reckoned it his responsibility, and he had telepathic skill reliable enough that he could discern precisely who needed culling. He hoped with all of his very old heart that his own grandson Michael was not to be one of them.
jarred1
smart mind cheers thumbs up
jarred1
i see on google you did write books wave
wenever
hi Cailin,,,wow you are so deep in thought love it keep it coming, I had to read the other one 2 times kept seeing new things in it wow cheers
CailinCallaghan
Hiya Jarred... Aaah I see you are stalking me. laugh thumbs up Well done, Lad! Be my guest! detective teddybear
CailinCallaghan
Morning Vern! Thanks for stopping by. I've abusy mind. I write for fun and to keep me out of trouble. Hope you enjoy. I love sharing. Time for some coffee! Have a great day!
jarred1
no no teddybear wave
jarred1
i check people always first laugh
CailinCallaghan
It's all good Jarred. It's just a joke. Some lovely intelligent (traumatized) man on this site got the idea I was stalking him because I followed his posts because he is so funny. (He really is hysterical and very bright. But I made him uncomfortable so I had to stop talking to him. It made me sad too. Firstly, because I'd made him nervous inadvertantly and secondly because he's so funny I miss laughing at his humor. AAANYway...) So now, if someone gives me an opportunity, I joke about stalking. No worries. If I didn't want attention (or to share) I wouldn't be here, would I? doh teddybear
Ken_19
Hi. wave
It is still too flowery and adjective heavy IMO.

May I suggest picking up somewhere (library if money is a crunch) a copy of Dean Koontz Frankenstein and seeing how he handles a similar topic?

teddybear
CailinCallaghan
Thanks Ken! I may just do that! wave
jarred1
hello cowboy laugh

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